Bullet Time
by TheDarkFlygon
Summary: [Post-SO] A shooting that shouldn't have happened. A bullet which hit the wrong person. Friends getting scared, a nurse crying. Blood pouring in droplets on everything it touches. In the midst of it all: Angie, her feelings and what could be her biggest sin. Perhaps she did kill a man today. [DerAng, implied Greg/Cybil]


_Drip, drip, drip._

Standing there was a nurse, frozen, when everything unfolded right before her eyes. Her body, whose reflexes were usually as sharp if not sharper than a brand-new high-end scalpel's blade, had given up on her, refusing to move when she should have been able to do something. The moments right before repeated on loop in her mind, racing, the intense beating of her heart resonating from the top of her skull to the ends of her toes.

Drop by drop, blood fell to the ground, having poured in a splash in a moment, then settled to just flow from its hole, gently, rapidly, _drip drip drip_. A part of it had tainted her uniform, making the colour go from a pastel, reassuring pink to a menacing crimson, hair dressed on her arms and legs. It continued dripping along in deafening metronome-like rhythm, _drip drip drip_, slowly making its way through her nerves, eating away at her sanity. Still paralyzed, she was unable to do anything about it, _drip drip drip_.

A red puddle was forming at the feet of the person in front of her, blue uniform left untouched from the back, drop by drop. Tears formed inside her eyes, threatening to exit as her sight blurred beyond recognition, preventing her from further hurting herself like that when she was still immobile and defenceless, as if the world was going to come for her throat next and that she'd be dead before she'd be able to realize that. _Drip, drip, drip_.

This someone in front of her, the shield with his arms stretched in front of her like the statue of a protective deity of an old city, gagged, desperate for air. He dropped to his knees, more blood pouring on the ground in raspy coughing fits, making her face the muzzle of Nemesis staring at her eyes with fury burning inside their irises and reddened sclerae. A shiver went down her back, making her tremble in either anticipation or rage, her legs tensed and her arms finally moving, fingers operational, waiting for the next move she'd decide to make.

In the desperation of a situation gone out of her control, in the back alley, stood a young woman who happened to be a nurse with more than a simple licence. As if the sound of her colleague gagging had made her break out of her trance, she made her first real move, sidestepping in a hope, using the darkness to her advantage, grabbing the man with the gun from behind and making him fall to the ground in a single swoop.

The weapon fell in a metallic click on the strangled sidewalk, letting go of its other bullet, piercing the nightly air and flying to the sky at an unbelievable speed. She had seen bullets before, she wasn't scared anymore. The man was unconscious, maybe dead, but that was beyond her care or attention. For the first real time in her life, it felt like a death that'd have been deserved and, even if it made her a murderer, then she'd be a justified one. There was no mercy for those who brought death upon innocent lives.

In a swift move of her right hand, she typed a very familiar three-unit phone number, fingers moving almost on their own. Her voice, her words, her gestures were all automatisms: she barely listened to what the other people told her unless it was vital information, a way to estimate how messed up the situation really was. Her own former colleagues felt like they were all robots she was speaking to because she was behaving like one, like a machine not to collapse under the weight of her own anxiety flaring in her chest, the incessant beating of her pounding heart and the fears she was overcome with. The voices were familiar and foreign all the same, a hiccup escaped her lips, and the phone almost slipped out of her hands as she fell to her knees.

The tears exited her eyes, rolled onto her cheeks, fell to the ground.

_Drip, drip, drip_.

* * *

It was a calm evening at Hope Hospital, glad to see there barely were any activity in the emergency department on that night. Desert corridors, nurses going home or arriving for the nightly shift, goodbyes and hellos, good nights and good evenings exchanged. A serenity out of the ordinary which, truly, should have made him much more alert because, as it stood, every calm has a storm following it.

Truth be told, Greg wanted to go home, especially when the shift he shared with Cybil was nearing its end. Did he arrange their shifts to match out of pure personal pleasure and medical efficiency? Yes. Did he regret it, even as he glanced at the clock either for it to turn to midnight or for something to jump at them? No. Perhaps he was as infatuated in his anaesthetist as his latest, former student was in his nurse the last time he saw the two of them around.

As such, Cybil and he were simply enjoying a nice conversation on how life was, allowing himself to disclose a few embarrassing childhood stories about Sidney to someone who had worked with his brother before at Caduceus. It felt nice to have a breath of fresh air, once in a while, so he avoided glancing at the clock or his watch too much and profited from the tranquillity surrounding them, hoping to maybe tell Cybil how pretty she was again and how much he enjoyed talking to her and… Yeah. Definitely infatuated, the diagnosis was obvious enough.

Cybil didn't seem like she was too upset about the calm either. The stories about the day where Sidney, the Sidney Kasal who always said he'd never lose a fight because he had never lost any argument in his life from the crib to obtaining his high-ranked chair at Caduceus USA, messed up on something and was panicked about what their parents would say made her smirk, then laughed, until they were unable to stop giggling like little mischievous kids around the cherished coffee table of their staff room.

The storm soon enough came back, though, as it always did in the life of head surgeon Greg Kasal.

Amanda Marsh, their latest recruit whom had joined them after Angie Thompson's departure for Caduceus, burst the door of the staff room open, eyes gone wide, beads of sweat on her forehead and temples, limbs trembling. This didn't immediately faze either specialist: young nurses usually were easy to impress, even Angie had been overwhelmed when she had had a patient flatline on her before. However, this meant going back to work soon, so he got up from his chair to face her.

"Dr Kasal, Dr Myers, we… We have a patient in!" she yelled, on top of her lungs, despite being otherwise breathless (or so it seemed, he supposed).

Greg and Cybil exchanged glances, before looking back at her.

"We'll get ready, bring us to them, okay?"

Amanda nodded and the three of them left for the emergency wing of the hospital. Storms had different sizes, from the small whirlwind to the ferocious typhoon nobody escaped from on its tracks. Secretly, considering this was the end of the shift and that the length of the day was starting to take a slightly toll on him, Greg quietly hoped this would be one of the smaller storms, that it'd be an easy job he couldn't mess up. Was this asking too much from a world where GUILT had been eradicated?

Yes.

"Here's the chart, Dr Kasal! Please make it quick, the patient is in a critical condition!" she gave him the papers he needed before running away into the operating room.

"I'll join her," Cybil told him as she had gotten her scrubs on. "You study that, I'm going to make them sleep."

"Got it, I'm on my way."

The chart on a chair as he prepped himself for the last surgery of the day, the one before his workmate came for the shift, he quickly read through it. The patient was a twenty-seven-year-old man, relatively tall and slim, otherwise with no specific condition. He had taken a bullet to the left lung, possibly having a rib or two damaged from it entered his body, where it had stayed. He finished getting ready when the topic of heavy blood loss and internal haemorrhage came on, prompting him to operate as soon as possible.

Once in the operating room, the grimmer face of Cybil and Amanda's nervousness didn't make it any easier to convince himself this was going to be an easy end of the day, despite how simplistic removing a bullet was compared to treating GUILT. An IV was inserted into the patient's wrist, monitored by the nurse, vitals displayed on a screen at 40. Not good, of course, but nothing he couldn't fix. He kept his cool and put the chart away.

"Amanda, I'll need you to keep an eye on the vitals along with his pulse, pressure and blood levels. Cybil, you know what you have to do. Let's save him, I know we can do this."

Greg, as self-assured as ever, picked up his scalpel and gel before, out of habit and maybe tradition, was about to look at the patient's face to mentally tell them to hang on, that it was going to be alright and that they'd soon be out of trouble when he remembered something. He'd fix it quicker than the bullet damaged the lung tissue, but before, he had to ask something to be done.

"Cybil, turn his head on his side, he may cough up blood as we proceed."

He watched as she did so, silently. Before their eyes could connect again, however, Greg realized who he was dealing with, tools almost slipping out of fingers. The metal touching the floor was never heard, but the tension grew into white noise.

"Oh, God, not you of all people…" escaped from his lips.

Amanda seemed confused, but her inquiries for a reply weren't met by either specialist in the OR.

He'd have the check the name on the charts before operating, next time. He was ready to deal with a bullet removal, but the patient turned out to be a rotten surprise. Yet, remembered what he had told Derek when he had himself been infected with Tetarti, he breathed in, breathed out and mentally slapped himself. Never let your friendship slow down your surgical skills. Never let your personal feelings hinder your performances. Never let yourself get emotional when you're needed in the OR.

Dr Kasal would save this young man; he swore to himself as he disinfected the body for a thoracotomy. He'd never lose a patient, ever. Not like this, not in these circumstances.

* * *

The ER's waiting room was empty at this hour of the night, making Angie desperate for a distraction as she waited for something, _anything_ to be announced, to happen. She had never been very patient when she was unable to help, to be active and proactive and change the world one gesture at a time. Reduced to the role of the concerned relative, friend or loved one, she didn't feel right to be there when she had the knowledge and skills to do something about it.

Instead, all she had to look at was her phone whose battery was dwindling down faster than the time went by and her hands, her bloodied hands she hadn't taken the time to wash before coming here and sitting in this room. She could only hope the good Dr Kasal was the one operating, the safest hands she could think of in this hospital, perhaps in this city to deal with this when Caduceus would have been too far away.

She needed to be moving if she didn't want to go insane, so she got up and decided to head for the restrooms. She'd be able to wash her hands covered in dried dark red, turning to brown the more time passed, a reminder that her clothes were bloodstained and that she'd never feel clean again after going through this, after watching this unfold before her eyes. She'd physically be cleansed, but it'd be a whole other story mentally.

As she rubbed the red away from her hands with force and what she had left of her vigour, Angie looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes reddened by all the crying, her body was still trembling, she looked like a maniac who had just killed a man and was getting away with it despite her intentions.

Thing was, she _had_ killed a man.

_They were walking in an alley to retrieve a parcel Angie had missed by having to go to work earlier than usual to make up for Sienna having the flu when she heard a somewhat familiar sound: that of a firearm getting readied to shoot. Instantly, she turned around while Derek, not having the sharper attention she had to tiny noises, didn't for a few moments, only to be faced by a man and his gun pointed directly at her._

"_We were just trying to fix humankind," he said in that monotonous voice of the people whose anger has confused them so much that they're only empty shells of who they used to be, "why did you stop us?"_

"_Put that weapon away immediately!"_

"_Why should I? You're guilty as charged, Dr Stiles, Nurse Thompson."_

As Angie walked through the familiar corridors of Hope Hospital again, bittersweet memories came back to her. She thought of her former colleagues, how much she'd have hoped to cross either Dr Kasal or Dr Myers and ask them how their relationship had been doing, how badly she wanted to hug someone and cry on their shoulder because she was scared, if not terrified, if not shaking with worry. She should've been reassured to be there, but clearly, she was the complete opposite.

_The trigger was pulled before she could do anything about it, her speech interrupted before it could even get out of her mouth. She was tempted to close her eyes and let the bullet heading towards her take her life, "let me kill the lady first so she doesn't have to witness your demise, Sinner Stiles," but even her eyelids stood frozen as the shot was fired._

_Little did she know Derek was rushing to her at an unnatural but known speed, shoving her out of the bullet's way, only discovering the deed had been done when she was on the ground, palms and knees hurting from the brutal fall, and red flashing before her eyes and onto her clothes._

In the end, Angie came back to the waiting room, pacing because sitting truly made her inactive, passive, _useless_. She wasn't a waste, she wasn't going to let herself waste away when perhaps, just perhaps, Derek needed her sooner or later. The tears were about to fall again as the events once again repeated in her mind, tearing apart her defences, showing herself she was far more vulnerable and weaker than she wanted herself to be, than she displayed herself to be to others.

_She couldn't be able to describe what she felt like when she jumped on the guy, disarmed him with a slap on the wrist and threw him to the ground. There was anger, of course, deep-rooted anger which had blazed through the different stages of intensity to become an unstoppable, unsatisfied want to see him disappear in suffering before her eyes, a desire to see him burn in Hell until the end of eternity, the wish to give justice to her dearest friend. Yet, there was something else, lingering somewhere, hindering at her need to destroy and pulverize until nothing was left of the murder attempt: sadness, concern, guilt. _

_Was she at fault for Derek getting shot in her stead? Yes. No. Maybe. Yes, but no, but yes, but no… The cycle of guilt looped endlessly because she didn't understand his decision. She was too __**heartbroken**__ to rationally think about said decision. _

She pulled out her phone, its battery in its last quarter. She had no charger on her, nothing to distract herself anymore, as if she could physically bring herself not to think of the situation. She was the reason why events had taken such a drastic, tragic turn: if she had been in control, if she had reacted properly and quickly enough, if she had been the heroine she had always wanted to be and become, she'd have stopped the dude before it was too late, before anyone got injured, before anyone risked losing their lives to stupid hatred and misplaced ideologies.

_Angie, despite her distressed state, cradled him in her arms, the other man unconscious and laying there with no clear sign of being alive or dead. Everything about Derek screamed vulnerability: his pulse was weak, his breathing was feeble, his eyes couldn't properly focus on her. She could tell he was trying to reassure her, but every time he spoke, he coughed up blood, and every time he tried holding her hand to show her he was going to be fine, he squeezed his eyes in pain._

_Her reflexes weren't lost in the panic of the situation, much to her relief. Pressing a hand against the wound to apply pressure to what must have been both an internal and external haemorrhage, she made sure to see if he was still conscious, if he could still reply properly and react to his environment. Time was slow, its course confusing, and she cursed herself for not having first-aid material on her when she had barebone training in it._

Eventually, exhausted by her tears and her fears, Angie sat down on a chair, never to move from it again. Even if she had cried over and over again in the last hour or so, she still wanted to weep like a child, to call a friend and vent to them about how scared she was of the future, of _his_ future, of how much she messed up on that one. What an idiot she was! And yet, and yet…And yet, Derek had done his best to reassure her, as if she wasn't the reason why he had gotten shot…

_She was a mess, lost in the tempest of emotions, unable to muster up enough courage to look strong and cool-headed. Instead, she was… absolutely useless to Derek, whose use of the Healing Touch had weakened to begin with. She should have been comforting him, but instead… _

"_H-hey, Angie… Don't cry…"_

_He was the one trying to make her feel better, despite her mistakes, despite his condition going downhill faster than it had unfolded._

"_B-but… You got __**shot**__, Derek! I… I'm so sorry!"_

_He put a weak, febrile hand on her shoulder, drenched in his blood and printing onto her dress._

"_I'll be fine, I… I'm sure of it… Please, don't cry…"_

_His voice was hoarse, struggling to speak out as he coughed up a bit more blood mixed with what she could assume was saliva. Sitting against a wall, face to face with her, she felt like she needed to protect him, but had already failed to do so…_

"_I… Ha!" _

_She yelped when she saw his already faint grasp on her shoulder weaken even more and his eyes, already half-shut in pain and exhaustion, close further. She was losing him. As long as he was awake, he was alive, but if he passed out, he could pass away and she'd be too sorrowful to notice it and apply the few reanimation techniques she knew. She couldn't lose him, not even let him faint on her. _

"_Derek, please, stay with me!" Her voice hiccupped with yet another wave of sobs. "Help is coming, please, just… Stay awake!"_

_Too late: he probably wasn't hearing her anymore. His eyes closed soon afterwards, leaving her alone with the silence, her tears and a breathing so weak it could vanish for a yes or a no._

"_I… I'm sorry…"_

…all she could do was wait and hope that Derek would have the strength and will to pull through it; so she slumped her shoulders and closed her eyes. There was no use in getting panicked…

"…Angela Thompson?"

An unfamiliar voice got her out of her thoughts, causing her to jump on her chair. Facing her was a young woman around her age, whom she didn't recall ever seeing before, presumably her substitute.

"Yes?"

Then she realized what it meant. The lack of an expression she could decipher on the nurse, presumably stuck in anxieties, scared her beyond what she could even express with words and medical terminology.

"How's Derek?!"

* * *

…

Everything felt… numb. Drowned sounds, muffled visuals, numbed sense of touch. Where was he? The ceiling, white, was no indication. It was blurry, everything was a blur actually, and his mind was completely blanking out. What had happened? What did he do last? Did it explain why he was there, where he was, how he had gotten there?

Did he ever wake up this confused, or was it one of these cases where he had passed out and didn't realize it?

His whole body was made out of the heaviest metal, limbs unresponsive and heavy, eyes half-opened and whose lids were made out of titanium. He didn't have his glasses on, he was sure of it: otherwise, his vision would have focused much earlier than that and left him waiting for far less time. Instead, heh… Where were his glasses, actually? Were they gone, were they near, did he still have a sense of space or dimension?

He looked around, as his neck was the first place of his body to remember how to function properly. More blur, obviously, but he could vaguely distinguish a few things, including the presence of someone to his right and a red square… thing to his left. Safe to assume he was in a bed and that someone was sitting in a chair next to said bed, so he was in a hospital.

Wait, _hospital_?!

It came back to him in a flash. The former Delphi member, the gun, using his gift to push Angie out of the way, the pain, the blood, and her tears. Everything came back, albeit these memories were still rendered imprecise and vague by the fact he had passed out and had just woken up. Goddammit… He had survived that, though, he was sure he was a goner and that he'd never get the occasion to tell Angie goodbye.

Not that he had wanted to do that on purpose. It was just a need he felt, to say her farewell before joining back his father. Alas, fortunately, Dad would have to wait: he had survived one more day, one more day and so much more lives he could save with these hands of his… soon enough.

A very welcome voice came to his ears

"Searching for these, Derek?"

His glasses magically appeared on his face, gently, without forcing themselves. Only a couple of people could have the delicateness needed to do so… and even then, it was a bit surprising.

"Angie…?"

His voice sounded as well as he looked and felt like, which meant terrible and cottony. Not exactly how he wanted to show up after getting close to death yet again.

"That's me, Dr Stiles. How you're feeling?"

"Huh… Had better days for sure…"

Now that his vision was clear, he took the time to look at her, to indulge in looking at her again to be exact. She was smiling, as beautiful as ever, even if he could somewhat tell she had been crying (well, he knew that, so it made this observation easier to make). He wished he hadn't made her get so concerned, from him he'd assume, but alas… It was too late to go back on that. What had been done, was done. No need to dwell on the past, despite the regrets…

"You scared us so much, you can't even imagine!" She began by scolding him and, if his chest didn't feel so sore, maybe he'd have laughed it off as usual. He was used to it, it was almost a daily thing for them. Friendly banter, in a way.

"Ha… Sorry for that, I… I jumped in there…"

Angie looked on the side, cheeks reddened. She muffled a hiccup.

"Why… Why did you do that, Derek? I, I mean, I'm grateful, but… That was stupid and you know it!"

He couldn't exactly blame her for being upset about what had happened in the alley. He hadn't explained himself very clearly when he was too busy keeping his airways free.

"I… saw that it was heading for your heart… You wouldn't have survived that, so… I thought… It'd be better if I took it because I wasn't going to immediately die from it…"

He attempted to smile to her, to reassure her again (too late, Derek, you dumbass).

"So, in all… I say it was worth it. I wouldn't have stood losing you to that guy…"

She looked speechless, for once. All she did in response to his words, his poorly-chosen but true words, was to squeeze his hand.

"Me… Me neither, so… Never do that again okay?"

"Not a chance…"

He allowed himself a light laugh.

"As a surgeon, I outta know… What are my injuries, Ms Thompson…?"

Angie looked utterly baffled at this, if not offended, but she still cleared her throat and, in the end, let a smirk show on her face.

"A bullet to the left lung, internal and external bleeding, a damaged rib. Don't worry, it didn't break, your lung isn't punctured. And it better has stayed that way!"

"Agreed there… Would have been a pain… Literally so."

"Do I need to consider you making terrible medical puns a good step towards your recovery, Derek?"

"Yes."

The silence settling in the room was light, almost soothing. Not that he didn't want to tell her about all the things he had thought when he was sure he was going to meet his demise in a dark, dirty corner of Angeles Bay, quite the opposite in fact; he just was too tired to tell them.

They were both alive, that was what mattered, all that mattered. He'd have to thank his surgeon as soon as he'd see them, but that could wait. His professionalism could wait, he was sure Caduceus wouldn't blame him for taking a day off, especially when his assistant nurse was so adamant in keeping him safe and watching over him. It'd be… all fine.


End file.
